I started writing my story while lying on the hospital bed.
Writing was a balm from the therapy sessions I needed.
I was alone, accompanied only by a lonely bed, a table, and a pen during my illness, far from everything I once wanted, in a strange country with no family or friends.
The pen was my only solace, the only one who understood me and felt everything I went through.
He did not issue ready-made judgments. He did not hunt for my mistakes. He would gently pat my weary heart and transfer my pains and postponed dreams to my blank pages.
This is not a short story you can finish in a day. This is a tale of pain, alienation, and deferred dreams—and a way to rise from nothingness.
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